


False messages, misunderstood

by CravenWyvern



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Short One Shot, Vent writing that got out of hand, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29458629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: You're just never going to let yourself learn, isn't that right?
Kudos: 6





	False messages, misunderstood

And there it was, another one.

Maxwell straightened up from the chest, living logs and vials of nightmare fuel and clusters of colorful gems shifting as the weight settled within, and he hadn't found what he had been looking for but in his hand was that small, simple scrap of papyrus.

Pink tinted, with a blossom red heart smack dab in the middle. Maxwell turned his hand, eyed the back of it, a blastedly familiar '-W' written just so.

And then he heaved a sigh, didn't fight the urge to roll his eyes, and slammed the chests lid shut.

His shadow clones paused at that, faceless heads twisting to look over at him, but when he flicked his hand and grumbled a few commands under his breath on they went, lugging logs and stones and organizing piles up as they got back to work. The Shadow Manipulator beside him hummed quietly to itself, shadows and slither thin smoke tendrils drifting about, and earlier he had planned to attend to it for some focus. The old librarian had requested a pan flute from him, something anyone could, in theory, make, but for one reason or another his old hands had a knack for the creation of magical items that the others did not.

Maxwell recalled that, earlier in the day, the mime had visited him briefly as to hand off a few things, reeds and a few new mandrakes. The man had a nose for finding the plant creatures, an irony that the former Nightmare King might have found funny if he was up for it.

Which he was not.

...Wes must have snuck this little note into the chest at some point during his time here, and Maxwell turned a sour scowl at the scrap of papyrus for a moment, a gloomy sneer steadily crawling over his face.

He didn't understand what this obsession was, with these false "holidays". Winter's Feast and Hollowed Nights he could barely tolerate, the new "years" was on thin ice, but this? Hardly worth the time or energy.

Maxwell crumbled up the note, ignoring how his gloved hand trembled ever so slightly, and then stuffed it away into a pocket with a shake of his head and a hissing exhale. The others so enjoyed that saying, that one about how it was the thought that counts, but Maxwell knew fairly well that Wes handed these off to everybody, one for each surviving pawn. This was nothing more than some broad gesture, a polite way of telling the former Nightmare King that he hadn't been forgotten just yet, no, not at all! In fact here's a little gift to remember it by, to show that _you're just as included as the rest-_

Maxwell shook his head, turned on his heel back to the Shadow Manipulator, and his scowl made it draw back its shadows, the shadow doppelgangers flinching from his glare and hurriedly getting back to work. The set aside pack of mandrakes and reeds sat there, empty gouged out roots twisted in death, the plants still with a fine coating of swamp mud stuck to them, and Maxwell had to pause and curse himself for wasting time, getting distracted.

It didn't help, really. Whatever Wes had been trying to do, whatever comforts that blasted holiday gave the others-

_-it did not help Maxwell._

The Shadow Manipulator was silent, humming shallowly to itself as his hand held to it, just a moment where he needed the stability to keep standing upright, and the emptiness in his chest ate away at everything else for a few minutes before he could compose himself once more.

Straightening up, dusting off his suit, eyes closed and face grit into a tense snarl, the former Nightmare King waved away the faint drifting smoke shades, ignored the more promising whispers and mocking comforts that the lingering shadows about his camp were humming. Tempting, and he knew the Codex was certainly trying to grab his attention from another chest, hidden away within his tent, but Maxwell stubbornly ignored Them and Their words.

...a bit harder to do, right now, but not a feat of strength. There was nothing to fear; he was fine.

Something shifted at the edges of his consciousness, hesitant, patient, and Maxwell opened his eyes and turned to glare at the shadow clone that had dared to disturb him.

It swayed, just a brief moment, oily fuels and smoke drifting in dark hues about its slick surface, an exact copy of himself, reflecting a separate part of him given to it as a will, and it-

-raised its hands, and offered up some bound cords of rope.

Maxwell hesitated, snarl caught in his throat, a withering ugly feeling in his chest that he quickly smothered, and then he took the rope and turned back to the Shadow Manipulator, back to doing work that would distract his mind from the realities of which he lived with.

What halted him, this time, was the distinct numb warmth of the shadow laying its hands to his back. 

He froze, minds eye showing him a view he found not at all pleasing, as if he ever found enjoyment looking at himself through a shadows eyes, a mirror did him better as his own judgements were not near as muddled by Their influence, and the shadow clone pressed its forehead to the back of his neck, low enough to be at the middle point between shoulder blades.

It made no other move after that, letting Maxwell hiss out an exhale, wheeze a rattling inhale, and its weight was nothing, mockery shadow as it was, its touch near absent in shadow smog sensation.

And then it straightened back up, pulled away from him, and Maxwell uttered a few more words, commands under his breath, only half turned to narrow his eyes and watch the shadow clone as it swung away and went back to its duties.

After a moment of silence, of a quiet barely interrupted by the shifting sounds of the working shadows, Maxwell heaved a sigh and turned his attention back to his own focus. The rope went into the pack, with mandrake roots and reeds, and he hefted it up and willed the Shadow Manipulator hold it for him. Its shadows shifted, gem gleaming, aura shivery weak and curious, skittish, but Maxwell had quelled his own internal turmoil for the time being and began to create the pan flute he had been tasked to make.

The crumbled note in his pocket seemed to hum on its own, a different song to the shadows surrounding him, and Maxwell ignored it with a thoroughness he has long learned from his time upon the Throne.

Later tonight he will toss it into the fire, and he'll tell himself he will be no worse for wear from doing so.

If he can't quite believe wholeheartedly in that, then that was on him and no one else to know.


End file.
